From the Ashes
by SevenSinsproject
Summary: [A rewrite of The Phoenix] He was just trying to live, whatever that meant. If that meant picking himself off the ground by himself then that's what he would do. And if that meant falling into the waiting arms of a brown-eyed Phoenix, well, he would do that too. Whatever it took to convince himself to live again.
1. Chapter 1

He did not feel good. The bottle dangled dangerously between his fingers, the glass he had been using previously tipped onto the carpet and the liquid inside leaving a pale pink stain on the carpet. He was upset, mostly because he had gotten drunk on wine coolers and he still had a full bottle of hard liquor (He couldn't remember what is was) sitting unopened by his bed. Blearily he tried to make sense of his thoughts, but they slurred together so much that he could barely understand what he was trying to think about. Opening his mouth and trying to voice the thoughts works no better; garbled sounds and a few hums escape his lips instead of anything even remotely coherent. He tries again, but just as he's about to his stomach lurches and the room starts spinning. The bottle makes a soft _thump_ as it lands on the carpet; his hands tremble so violently that he barely manages to catch himself as he sinks to his knees. He lands right in the alcohol he spilled earlier, the liquid seeping through his jeans and causing him to shiver. It makes him so uncomfortable he wants to scream, but he bites his lip instead and blindly searches for something to hold on to.

Everything seems so far away-that, or he just can't reach far enough. His fingers just barely brush against something (He vaguely remembers that there was a desk nearby, but God, everything is so _fucking blurry_ ) and he lets out a frustrated groan. "C'mon, you can do this," he mumbles, or at least, he thinks he mumbles. Everything sounds far too loud, so even if he feels like he's barely saying the words they sound like he was yelling them at the top of his lungs. Fumbling he places both hands on the desk and pushes himself up, knees buckling as he manages to settle on the balls of his feet. Standing upright is a whole new challenge, one he isn't ready to face, so instead he huddles there, settling on his heels as he tries to focus on something in the hopes that it would get his vision to stop swimming.

"You really need to clean your desk, bud." He giggles at that, and when he hiccups it causes him to laugh even harder. There is some truth to his statement-even in his intoxicated state, he can tell that his desk is less of an organized chaos and more just _chaos_. There are papers scattered across its entirety, notes taken in green gel pen and covered in doodles in a more obnoxious green (Highlighter, if he remembers correctly). Pens are also haphazardly strewn on the desk, most uncapped, and underneath one a pool of ink is beginning to form, a startling shade of red against the light wood on his desk. The part of him that isn't incredibly wasted whispers that it will stain, and _Mom is going to kill me_ _for it_ , but the other, greater half merely laughs, adjusting his position so the pads of his second and third fingers rest in the sticky liquid, wincing a bit at the uncomfortable stretch it causes in his left arm. The desk lamp bent at an awkward angle, and the bulb is loosely hanging out of the plastic shade. His shift had caused the table to move, and it wobbled dangerously. An idea pops into his head and he slams his fists against the table, wincing at the loud _bang_ that fills the room. The lamp shudders, and the bulb slips out, landing on the table. It doesn't shatter, and he frowns, chewing on his lip. Just as he's reaching for it (If gravity won't do its job then he'll do it, damn it) there's the creaking of hinges and the sound of his door sliding against the carpet. "Lloyd?"

"Mommy," he giggles, turning around so he can see her. The shift makes him loose his balance, and he falls ungracefully onto the floor. "Fucking hell," he groans, picking himself up, leaving bright red fingerprints on the carpet.

"Lloyd?" His mom whispers, and he furrows his brows.

"Why're you crying, mommy? I'm okay." He waves his hands at her, looking up so he can see her. She stands in the doorway, a white button down half-way off her shoulders and the buttons that were done were all askew, as if she had been in a rush to do them. Her braid is messy, larges chunks falling out and messily framing her face. She doesn't look sad anymore, instead appearing almost mad as she chews at her lips. "We'll deal with this in the morning, okay?" She begins entering the room, and Lloyd panics, trying to rise to his feet.

"No." He cries, tripping over himself to try and push her back out. His attempt fails, almost pitifully, and he ends up falling into her arms, chin thumping against her shoulder as she steadies him.

"Easy, baby. Come on, let's go to bed."

"Not tired." He whines, trying to pull away from her. "Let go of me!"

"I'm trying to help you," she shouts back, grip tightening on his shoulders. "Quit being a brat."

"You're the brat!" He hears it before he feels it, the sound of skin hitting skin so loud that it makes him stagger backwards the few steps he had, back hitting the desk as his hands once again rests in the pile of ink. Lloyd blinks up at her, tears filling his vision. "Mom?"

"Go to bed," she seems to have aged a hundred years, voice low and heavy as her shoulders sag. "Just go to bed, Lloyd." The door slams shut and he yells, not words but syllables, so loud it makes his throat ache. He feels like he's aged, too, sinking into a ball on the floor. With shaking hands he brushes his cheek, trying to relieve the pain with ink-stained fingers. "Fuck," he chokes out, drawing his knees as close to his chest as he can. It's uncomfortable, a tightness settling in his back as his stomach lurches. He won't throw up, he _won't_ , and to distract himself he reaches under his shirt and drags his nails across his hips so harshly that some part of him worries that it will bleed. Part of him hopes that he will.

He only stops when he hears the creak of bedsprings from across the hall, hears his mom screaming, "Fuck, Wu," and he wishes that his dad was here, wishes he was here so badly that his chest actually begins to ache, but Lloyd decides that could be his liver protesting and not his heart. It's in the wrong spot, anyway, too low and too far to the right. Shakily he rises, pulling at his shirt until he finally manages to get it off. He leaves his jeans on, even though his knee feels uncomfortably sticky and that there are bound to be stains that transfer to the bed. He doesn't care, never has, if he was honest with himself (He rarely was-honesty was a dangerous game) and he sinks onto the bed with a sigh, not even bothering to pull the covers higher than his hips. When he finally falls asleep it's to gentle murmurs coming from across the hall, words he pretends are whispered to him filling his head and calming him enough that he can shut his eyes.

"I'm sending him, and you can't stop me!"

Lloyd wakes with a start, bolting upright. The motion only makes it worse, and he falls back with a muted groan. "Great," he whispers, staring up at the ceiling. "I just love waking up to an argument."

"He's your son, Misako." He perks a bit at that, but tries not to let his hopes get up. It had been a long time since his mother had accepted that he was, indeed, her son, and even longer since she had done it while sober. "You can't just dump him into the first place that will take him."

"The little brat was drunk last night." _And so were you_ , he wants to scream, knowing that it would be heard through the thin walls as clearly as if he was in the room. "And he is _not_ my son." He couldn't hear the rest even if they wanted too; their voices had gotten too soft to hear, and the headache forming behind his eyes certainly didn't help. What he does want is a shower, but that would mean going through the kitchen to get there, and he doesn't have the courage to face them. Not yet.

"I think...I think there are some baby wipes in one of the drawers." Slowly he gets out of bed, pausing when his foot bumps against something. He reaches down and grabs it, narrowing his eyes. "Ah, Brad's gonna be so pissed I didn't drink this." He pauses, laughing dryly. "Oh, wait. No he's not. He's dead." Anger and guilt swirl in his chest, and Lloyd isn't sure if he wants to down the bottle or throw it. He decides on neither, setting the bottle on his bed and raising his arms up in a stretch. It causes his back to crack loudly, but the feeling is pleasant, so he stretches a bit further, raises his arms until he can no longer do so because the stretch is too much, too painful, too difficult to maintain. He lets his arms fall slowly to his sides, rolling his shoulders back in order to ease some of the discomfort. It helps, and he heads towards his desk to try and find the baby wipes.

His fingers land in the ink in his fumbling for the drawers (It makes him feel stupid, because there are no drawers at the top of his desk) and he leave red fingerprints across the wood as he turns his attention towards the first drawer. It's contents make him flinch, and he considers going back to the bottle on his bed because he is not, in any way, shape, or form, ready to deal with this, particularly sober. Papers fill it nearly to the brim, and his hands shake as he shuts the drawer with more force than necessary. He isn't ready to read them again; unprepared for the weight that will fill him when he sees his name written in the handwriting of his dearest friend. The handwriting of a dead man. The letters' contents are too deep, to _raw_ for him to process right now. Hell, he couldn't even understand their weight when he read them the first time. _I love you,_ written in swirling letters, _Promise you won't cry_ , in various colors, letters swimming together until they were barely legible. _Will you be on the throne of Hell when I arrive?_

"Damn it," he whispers, wiping angrily at his eyes with his clean hand. "Damn it, Lloyd. Get your fucking act together." His headache returns full force, happily blooming in the space between his eyes. It makes him want to scream, or bang his head against the desk until he blacks out. Maybe in the hospital he'd be able to do something that even _resembled_ recovery? Because he certainly wasn't getting it here. From of the sounds of it, though, he was going to be getting help. Whether he wanted it or not. He only hoped it wouldn't be like the places they showed on T.V, white walls and stoic professionalism. Whispers of, "We're here to help, sweetie," by doctors who didn't give two shits about whether you recovered or not, so long as they got a pay check. He wouldn't survive there. Although it wasn't like he was surviving here, held together only by a bottle of liquor and hastily wrapped blunts. No, this wasn't living, or surviving, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it. This was existing in it's hollowest form; the process of becoming a shadow when there is no light to create it. The ashes after a fire that are being swept away by nothing more than a gentle breeze. Weak, pathetic, helpless.

The contents of the second drawer are easier to stomach-loose ends and more pens scattered across the bottom. A single piece of paper is tucked into the furthest corner, edges torn and wrinkled so badly it was if it had been balled up again and again. A letter that was supposed to be sent to his dad years ago, written in the brightest green ink and covered in crudely drawn hearts because back then, he had been his entire world. Now, he was barely a part of it, the darkest planet on the farthest edges of his galaxy. Broken beyond repair, coming back home just long enough to ruffle his hair and bang his mom. Or, if she wasn't home, call up one of the pretty, married women from one of the houses nearby, because just like him their marriages were failing and they would do anything to get a quick fix. No "I missed you son" or "Are you alright? The bags under your eyes are too dark for someone your age. Would you like to talk about it?" If any words were exchanged between them it was, "My flight is tomorrow morning. I have a few errands to run, and won't be back until late. Don't wait up for me."

He shuts this one with a bit more care, hesitating a moment before opening the third. Sitting proudly inside is a package of baby wipes, and his shoulders sag in relief. Grabbing it and shutting the drawer softly, Lloyd pauses, unsure of what to do now. He feels _gross_ , the kind that he usually chased away with alcohol and a hot shower, but the thought of alcohol makes his stomach churn unpleasantly and there's no way in Hell he is going to walk through the kitchen looking like this. Instead he plops ungracefully onto the floor and rips the packet of baby wipes open, grabbing one and roughly scrubbing at his hands. It's almost therapeutic, and he drags the wipe up his arms until he reaches his shoulders. He grabs a new one for his chest, taking more care as he gently rubs at his collar bones and neck. When he grabs a third for his face his arms are beginning to hurt, as soothing as the repetitive motion is, and he goes as slowly as possible. When he's finished he feels damp, if not a little sticky, but in what he felt was an almost pleasant way. He shoves the used wipes and the packet to the side and rises slowly, legs shaking like he's never stood a day in his goddamn life. It's embarrassing, but it's nice in a way, too, that his body understands that he's a fucking mess and has decided that it should act accordingly.

It takes eight steps to reach his closet, several of which were attempts to keep him upright. He clings to the wall as he glances through his closet, wanting to just grab the first things he sees and throw them on, but a nagging voice tells him that if he's going to be in public he might as well be presentable. So he digs for a pair of jeans that aren't ripped or stained, having to actually sink to his knees to better search the piles of clothes haphazardly strewn about his closet. The pair he grabs are tucked into one of the corners, folded unusually neat, causing them to stand out in the chaos. He slings them over his shoulder and rummages around until he finds a hoodie that he really, _really_ shouldn't fit into but still does, even after owning the thing for nearly five years. It's still soft, with just enough room that he doesn't feel like he's suffocating. This hoodie was like a security blanket to him-if things went wrong, he could bury himself in the fabric and pretend that everything is okay. With the rest of his clothes he grabs the first thing he can, balling them up and returning to the spot on the carpet he unofficially declared home base. He plops ungracefully onto the floor, removing his hoodie and ripping open the package of baby wipes. Gracelessly he rubs at his skin, wanting to erase as much of the unpleasantness off of him without the use of warm water and his mother's flowery soaps. It helps, a little, and soon he's shucking off his jeans and scrubbing at his legs like he has no other purpose in life.

His skin is tinged pink by the time he's through, and there are an ungodly amount of used wipes sitting in a pile beside him, but he feels better. His new jeans are a little too tight and rub at his skin in a way that makes him wince; his hoodie sits too high on his chest, revealing a strip of pale skin whenever he moved his arms . It smells nice, though, like flowery perfume and Febreeze and he inhales deeply, letting the comforting scent wash over him. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice (one he knows, hates to admit that he knows) begins whispering, voice like velvet and sending shivers down his spine. He buries his face in his hands, nails digging into his cheeks so hard he worries that the crescent-moon indents they're likely to leave will never fade. He wants his father so much in that moment he feels ill, roughly pushing his head between his knees in order to prevent the nausea from getting too bad. _You have his number,_ the voice whispers in a low growl, making him shudder. _On speed-dial, no less. Just how pathetic are you?_ Lloyd drags his nails down his face, down his neck, finding relief in the fact that there will be pink marks left behind. He wants a drink, want to curl into his bedsheets and never leave, wants _help_ , but the only person who would have helped him is six feet under wearing a hand-me-down suit and tattered loafers. Lloyd forces himself to his feet before he tears himself apart, slowly making his way to his bed. He collapses into the pile of sheets, blindly searching for his phone. _I could stay here forever_ , he thinks, reaching for the nearest sheet to throw over him.

Lloyd thinks he must look like a mess. He's positive his socks don't match, his hoodie has ridden up so his lower back is exposed and just barely covered by the haphazardly thrown sheet; his hair is sticking up at all angles and _gross_ , and he wants a shower so, so bad, but he buries himself deeper into the sheets and claps his hands over his ears. He finds his phone after a few more desperate pats around the bed, pulling it under his cocoon of blankets and gently situating his headphones over his ears, not even bothering to untangle the cord. He isn't sure what he's going to listen to yet, torn between something safe and comforting or something that will block out all the noise, including the commotion in his own head. After a moment he settles on comfort, scrolling through playlist after playlist until he finally settles on one that makes his heart swell.

 _For Nights When You Miss Me_

He's crying before the first song even starts, hands pressing so tightly against his headphones that it hurts. The first song begins and he wants to scream the words, wants to write the words on _His_ skin like they did before. He wants the other boy back more than he ever has, so much so that he would find a way to follow him to the grave, forsake his dying wish and finish their tragic love story. Fuck surviving, fuck living, fuck whatever this sorry excuse for an existence he is.

He stays like that for a long, long time. Long enough for someone to settle beside him on the bed, warm hand resting on his trembling shoulders as he continues to cry. Only after his phone batter had died does he crawl out of his cocoon, flexing his fingers to try and ease the stiffness that had accumulated there. He peers up at his Uncle, who only smiles sadly at him. "Fuck you." Lloyd's voice cracks, worn out from all his sobbing.

"Your mother has left for work. I'm sure you heard our conversation this morning. Whenever you're ready to go, Lloyd."

"I'll be out in a minute," he snaps, though it doesn't have the effect he would like. When his Uncle doesn't move he repeats it a little louder, violently shifting to get his hand off him. "I said I'll be out in a minute, okay? I don't need your fucking pity!" His Uncle's hand is withdrawn quickly as if the other had been burnt, and he quietly leaves the room. Lloyd sits up roughly, headphones slipping to lie against his neck. He fumbles for the bottle tucked against the sheets, letting out a choked noise when he finds it. Angrily he throws it across the room, too upset to care what the repercussion will be. He was still adjusting from feeling nothing at all to everything at once. Bending over his bed he blindly grasps for the backpack he keeps there, filled with clothes that weren't his but fit well enough and small reminders of what his life was before The Incident. He shoves his phone and its charger inside, but takes much more care with his headphones. They're probably the only reason he's still breathing, after all.

Once everything is in his bag he sets it on his lap and just sits for a moment, blankly staring at the new stain he made on his off-white wall, trying to process what was going on. As soon as he leaves this room his life is going to be changed-good, bad, he doesn't know but God does he care. He wants things to be _good_ for once in his life. Maybe this is it? This is his _good_ , his miracle cure, his life after death. Maybe after this he can face the world of the living as one of them, not some empty shell trapped in the _what-was_ and _what-ifs_. Maybe this could be his happy ending.

If only he didn't feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

 **...Author's Notes...**

So, as you can see, I'm back at it again. I've been really compelled to rewrite this story, and while updates may be a bit sporadic until the end of school (so a good couple months) they will hopefully be better quality and more story driven (and actually have a story) than the previous edition. The Phoenix will remain up for any of you who wish to read it, but should otherwise be considered abandoned. This fic will also be posed on my Archive of Our Own account under the username Gretccheen. I hope you all enjoyed this introduction, and if you have any suggestions feel free to leave them in the comments! See you all soon!


	2. Chapter 2

The car ride is awful.

He was curled up in the back seat with his bags (his Uncle had given him a disapproving look and practically forced him to pack another) headphones slipped over his ears even though nothing was playing. It was his mother's car, an expensive one that Lloyd never bothered to learn the name of, but there's an outlet and he had hurriedly plugged his phone in as a distraction. His Uncle wouldn't talk to him with his headphones on ( _Not like he ever talked to me anyway_ ), so it was surefire way to by him some valuable thinking time. Or, rather, time to overthink every little thing as they drove closer and closer to…wherever it was they were going. Some correctional facility? Lloyd wasn't sure. All he knew was that whoever his Uncle was taking him too was going to "help" him. Whatever that meant.

Honestly, he still wasn't sure what he needed help with. Other than his _slight_ dependency (oh, who was he kidding; he was fucking addicted) to drugs, and to alcohol, and the occasional razor blade against the skin of his thigh. He was careful with the former, however, because he was afraid of what would happen if he left something permanent on his skin. His thoughts already gave him a constant reminder; he didn't need a physical reminder, too. Mentally? All he knew was that he was pretty fucked up. How to fix that? He had no idea.

Maybe he'd make new friends. The thought sends a shot of ice cold dread through him. Why did the thought of new friends make him so anxious? _Probably because all my old friends are either dead, running from the cops, or in prison. I must have really lucked out, huh?_ He shudders, bringing his bag closer to his chest. _Maybe I'm just are afraid of starting all over again?_ Not that he had much to cling to. His home life sucked, and his previous escape had been shattered for almost six months now. No, he had nothing to go back to. Not anymore.

"So…Where are we going?" His Uncle startles, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

"Julien's Correctional Facility. It's in the inner part of Ninjago City."

"Oh," Lloyd said softly, fiddling with the straps of his backpack. An inner-city facility had _not_ been in his list of ideal locations. For one thing, they probably wouldn't let him outside. The only reason he had survived so long was because of the days where he sat in the sun and let him warm him up until he could move and feel again. Like a lizard. Dragons were lizards, right? They didn't need the sun to warm them up; they had their own sun inside them. Maybe if he pretended he was a dragon he could live without the sun, too.

"They have a garden there," his Uncle offers, and Lloyd straightens. "It isn't as impressive as your mother's, but it's something."

 _It'll be enough. It has to be_. "Okay." He had practically lived in the garden the first month after The Accident, hidden amongst rose bushes that pricked snagged his clothing and pricked his skin so much that he bled, only venturing out when sun disappeared to go cry amongst the orchids his father had planted before everything went to shit. He felt unsafe in the dark, and to him any memory of his father was safe, was _sacred_ , and so he clung to his memory in whatever form he could find it. He would find somewhere safe to hide when things got too rough at the facility.

Ever since he was a kid he had been an easy target. His small stature paired with the fact that he bruised easily made him a favorite amongst the kids in his middle school. High school had gotten better, but that was only because his friends were willing to fight and were determined to protect the baby-faced blonde they added to their group. Mostly because he had the ability to get good liquor and despite his tiny fingers could roll the best joints this side of Ninjago City. But they were good people, at least to him, and he would cling to their memory, too. At least, he would try. Some memories were better left forgotten. _Not that you can forget_ , a voice whispers lowly in his ear. _How could you? They raised you, didn't they? Would you dare forget your parents?_

Lloyd presses his hands firmly over his headphones, wincing at the sound of his nails scraping against the plastic. _Not toady. Please. Please, not today._ The voice laughs but says nothing more, and after a moment Lloyd slowly removed his hands, glancing to see if his Uncle had reacted. He was a little disappointed to see that his Uncle hadn't moved at all, but wasn't surprised. His family had never cared for him. They were too busy trying to live the childhood he had taken from them (not that they had told him that was the reason—he had figured that one out on his own).

When they enter the city, Lloyd turns his music on, finding a playlist of his own that was called _For Days When You're Overwhelmed and Hate the World and Nobody Will Shut Up_. The first song began, the opening of an anime he had watched when he was too drunk to appreciate it. _HIkaru Nara._ If you will shine. It was bright, and usually he only had to listen to it to be pushed out of his bad mood. He places the song on repeat, because he doesn't want to go through the rest of the playlist (he wants consistency, damnit, for once in his life). So _HIkaru Nara_ it is, with its lyrics that he doesn't quite understand and the mix of violin and piano that makes his heart swell.

At some point he must have fallen asleep, because when he opens his eyes the car has stopped in front of a building that looks dwarfed next to the metallic Godzillas next to it. His neck aches and he feels stiff, but he pushes through it with a roll of his shoulders and a slow arching of his back. Every move he makes causes his muscles to groan in protests, and he tries not to think about the reason behind it (After all those years of curling into tight spaces his body should be used to some discomfort…Shouldn't it?). A quick glance around the car tells him that his Uncle has left. _Good riddance. I didn't need him anyway._

He climbs out of the car without a second thought. His Uncle is either inside the building or he's left him for dead; he's not about to sit and find out if the former is the actual answer. Carefully he slips one of the backpacks over his shoulder, tightly gripping the other one. He takes a deep breath before making his way towards the building. There's no sign indicating what kind of building it is; honestly the only reason he knows this is the right place is because the stone exterior sticks out amongst the steel giants on either side. That, and if he leans far enough while standing on the tips of his toes he can _just_ make out some trees behind the building. The fact that there are any plants at all is enough to soothe him.

Still, he hesitates outside the doors. Entering will change his life—for better or worse—and it's a commitment he isn't sure he's ready to make. But he wants to leave. His home sucks, his mom is awful, and his dad doesn't care, and his Uncle does nothing but sit and watch as his mom tries to tear him apart. His friends are gone. There's no one on his side anymore. Back there, he's completely alone. Here, he as a chance (even if it's small). There's hope. For him, for his future.

He's standing in front of the door before he can think too deeply about it, grasping the door handle in a death grip (it's cold, the opposite of most people's renditions of Hell, so that must be a good sign). The door gives easily under his weight (what little there is) and he slips inside, making sure the door shuts softly behind it. He glances around the room curiously, a little shocked.

It certainly doesn't _look_ like a hospital, or a mental facility. The walls are white, but not in the horror-movie-esque way that it's usually portrayed. The lights aren't fluorescent, either, just bright. On the walls there are paintings and drawings of all sorts, primarily portraits. There are plush chairs situated in one corner with children's toys scattered on the floor in front of him. He heads towards those, not quite ready to face the office staff (horror movie scenes flash before his eyes, making him feel queasy) and he settles in front of one of the chairs.

The waiting room is eerily silent—there wasn't even any elevator-worthy music playing. Lloyd was a little disappointed. But it wasn't scary. In fact, it's almost the opposite. He's the most relaxed he's ever been without any drugs or alcohol. That might have to do more with his upbringing and personality than the actual atmosphere though.

His father was a business tycoon, and a powerful one at that. He had the world at his fingertips, quite literally. He was charming, dark-haired and handsome, and could probably charm snakes with just a few words. On the other hand, his mother was straight-forward to the point of bluntness, avoiding pretty words and making comments that she knew would get results. She was stubborn and sometimes distant, caring more for her archaeological finds than her son. Both weren't afraid to get their hands dirty, either. Their marriage had been one for clearly selfish gains, however. His mother wanted access to the Serpentine tombs in the South and his father wanted more backing from the archeological committee. A perfect match.

By the time Lloyd was born things had already taken a nasty turn. When he wasn't at his Uncle's house he was home with a babysitter who only cared about the large paycheck. His parents would do anything to keep him out of their limelight, and he was happy to oblige—he didn't want any of that, anyway. By the time he was seven he could tell the real from the fake in almost anything. That was the moment he realized he wanted something real, whatever that may be.

Hopefully there would be no scandals that would erupt from him being here; there would be no covering this one up. After all, there were only so many reporters they could bribe. The story would come out, and there would be no way to silence it. Sometimes he wanted to release it himself and destroy the perfect family façade his parents had created. Prove to the world that there was more inside their dollhouse than they could ever believe. He had enough information, and most would believe his testament. Who wouldn't believe the darling little Garmadon boy? It made him sick just to think about it.

Subtly Lloyd reached a hand inside his hoodie and drags his nails across his stomach, trying to school his expression into something neutral. His body bore all the evidence of the Garmadon's dark history; he was a living legend, a relic, the only one of its kind. _Mom would be proud_. He almost laughs at that, biting the inside of his cheek to keep it down. He isn't ready for any attention, yet. Even he doesn't know the gravity of their history, yet, and he was there for it all. He wonders how fucked up they made him, wonders if wasn't the drugs or alcohol that ruined him but his own family. Something deep in his body that he couldn't control, couldn't _fix_ even if he wanted to. He wonders if the people here will pity him. Lloyd hopes not; he's tired of pity.

The door swings open and he looks up to see an older man enter. A quick glance along the walls and Lloyd quickly recognizes his face amongst the portraits, although he can't make out the name underneath it. The man turns to him as if he knows that Lloyd is sitting there. Lloyd straightens quickly, scrambling to look somewhat presentable. "I tried to tell them that those chairs weren't comfortable, but no one ever listens to an old man, do they?" He says lightly, and Lloyd glances up at him curiously. "Do you mind if I sit with you a moment?"

"No," he replies after a moment.

"Thank you." He sinks into a chair with a soft groan, rubbing his knees. "The walk to work certainly isn't what it used to be."

"You work here?" Lloyd asks, unable to hide the shock in his voice.

"Oh, yes." The old man good naturedly. "I think it makes sense for me to work in my own building, doesn't it?" Lloyd nods dumbly, and the man laughs. "I'm Nathaniel Julien, but most people tend to call me Dr. Julien. And you are?" The doctor extends his hand and Lloyd hesitates a moment before accepting it.

"Uh, Lloyd. Lloyd Garmadon."

"So, you were the one they called me about," Dr. Julien muses, and when he sees Lloyd's nervous expression he laughs. "It was nothing bad, I promise. I'm currently the only working doctor here; my son hasn't quite gotten his medical degree yet. I'm the only one certified to give perform any medical tests. There's no need to be frightened."

"I'm not," Lloyd argues weakly before leaning back against the chair.

"It doesn't do either of us any good if you lie; it's alright to be afraid."

"I'm a _Garmadon_ ," he emphasizes his family name like that explains it all. "We're not supposed to be afraid; we're supposed to _make_ people afraid."

"Is that something you enjoy? Making people afraid?" The doctor asks, and Lloyd can't bear to look at him.

"No," he admits after a long moment. "I guess I don't."

"Family isn't always the people you're born too," Julien says, rising slowly. "Sometimes it's the people who find us and see us at our most vulnerable and love us anyway. Why don't you think about that, and tell me what you think family is during our next session?"

"Next session?"

"Your Uncle seemed very adamant that we get you checked in as soon as possible. A good friend of mine should be down here to show you around soon. He can be a bit, ah, hot headed. But he's a good kid. I think the two of you should get along fine." The doctor shakes his head fondly like he's talking more about a wayward son than a friend. "Will you be alright on your own?"

"Yeah," Lloyd said, throat tight. "My Uncle…?"

"Is gone, I'm afraid," Dr. Julien said sadly. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Lloyd mumbled, knowing that the doctor could clearly see that it was indeed not fine. "I'll be fine."

"That you will. Until we meet again, Lloyd." The older man rises from his chair slowly, giving Lloyd a wave before entering further into the facility. Lloyd curls in on himself, slipping his headphones up from his neck and over his ears. He presses his hands firmly against them, wincing at how loud it is. But he doesn't want to turn it down—let him go deaf. He'd rather not hear at all than hear the horrible things people would say about him when they found out.

 _The doctor seemed nice, though,_ a voice whispers softly, _I'm sure he wouldn't let you drown._

"But he might," you whisper back, frantic, nails scraping against he plastic. "He might."

"Just because he might doesn't mean he will." Lloyd jumps, head whipping up to see a young man standing in front of him. "Easy, kid. I don't bite." _Yeah, right_. He stares up at him, not being subtle about watching his hands. The man holds them out, palms up. "I'm not going to hurt you. Promise. You can even hold them, if you'd like, so you know where they're at while we're talking. Sound fair?"

Lloyd takes a shaky breath, narrowing his eyes at the hands offered to him. "I don't even know you." It comes out high and tight, almost making his voice crack, and Lloyd winces. The man hums, carefully sinking so he's more at Lloyd's level. He makes sure that his hands are where Lloyd can see them the entire time, and each movement is painfully slow. "I don't know you, either, but I've heard of you. That's got to count for something, right?"

"Why should I trust you?" He spits, suddenly defensive. _How much does he know?_

"I don't know," the man says with a shrug, and Lloyd's nails dig into his palms. "Why don't we talk a little more and you can find out?"

"Fuck you." Lloyd practically grows, and the man laughs, hard. Lloyd feels his skin get hot, and he drags his nails across his palm to keep himself from doing something he might regret.

"Fiery little fuck, aren't you?" The man laughs again, but this time Lloyd feels the heat go right to his stomach. He curls his toes, glancing up at the man. _He's pretty hot_. _Wait, no, can't think like that. Not here._ "So, what do you say? Wanna come get lunch with me?" The man feels dangerous, and every word he says sets Lloyd aflame. It's a risk, and, his own health be damned, Lloyd wants to take it.

If this "new life" he's leading only leads to his own fiery demise, well, he'll take it. Phoenix's rise from the ashes, don't they? Well, maybe he can, too. "Okay," Lloyd says, taking the man's hands. "But you're paying."

"Yeah, yeah," the man replies easily, and Lloyd smiles. _Maybe this won't be so bad._ For once in his life Lloyd hopes that he's actually right.


End file.
